Catching the Light
by Scroll Keeper
Summary: He says he was just trying to catch the light. Gordon seems to have a different idea. He has to disabuse Gordon of that notion. And fast. Lots of thoughts which aren't entirely coherent during the Lamborghini crash and its aftermath in "The Dark Knight". Does not strictly follow canon.
1. Night

**Disclaimer:** I don't own nor have any claim on any recognizable characters or settings. This story is written mainly because I had an idea that would not let go and shared because I hope my effort would at least be readable. With that being said, any mistake is mine alone. No money is being made off this story.

* * *

 **Catching the Light**

 **Chapter 1: Night**

* * *

They say that there is light at the end of the tunnel.

Is that what I'm seeing, Rachel? While I'm thinking and discarding plans to prevent a disaster in the making, it seems like I am barreling down a tunnel, and the police van in the far distance is my prize, the light I seek.

3... 2... 1...

The actual crash is a blur. It's sudden, boom, just there. Even though I've been bracing myself for the impact, in the end, I only manage to rearrange my posture enough to protect my body.

The next thing I know, I am sitting right in the intersection, my back almost but not quite touching what is left of my car. I don't remember getting out of the Lamb nor which of its many(?) anti-crash mechanisms have been engaged (welllll, the airbag, of course. One of these days I should start reading the (I'm sure is) fine instruction manual). I only know I'm not seeing the inside of this car again, ever.

Goodbye, _Bat_. Nice knowing you while it lasted.

If my predictable accident managed to go on TV (and it would be just my luck if it's GCN reporting) while the town is in an uproar over the Joker, Alfred would surely lecture me again on the thrill seeking.

You know what? I almost look forward to that lecture. All this craziness is starting to get to me.

So, against all my obsessive needs for order among chaos, I wouldn't try to wheedle my way out of being in the news. Although, as Bruce Wayne was driving, it's gonna be just 'moderately good television' this time.

I'm dreaming. Must be a side effect from the crash. The world where keeping track of Bruce Wayne, even though he's dubbed 'the Prince of Gotham', is more important than keeping track of a dangerous, unpredictable criminal is the world I do not want to live in.

"...Mr. Wayne, isn't it? That was a very brave thing you did."

Rubbing my eyes, I paste a stupidly dazed look on my face. And it isn't entirely an act. The stupidly dazed look, that is. A madman threatens to blow up a hospital filled with several hundred lives in exchange for one life that threatens my very existence and all I can now focus on is the fact that my hero threatens to make Bruce Wayne into some sort of a hero.

But the praise is reluctant - there seems to be some faint trace of disapproval. Perhaps my hero thought I shouldn't be too reckless with my vulnerable life? All the better for me, then, since it wouldn't be too hard to convince him that I didn't do whatever brave thing he claimed I did.

'Hello, Lieutenant. How do you like your partner off shadowy rooftops and into the sunlight?'

'It's _Commissioner_ now. And not very much, Mr. Wayne. A plastic personality isn't really my cup of coffee.'

Ouch! No, double ouch! My hero becomes the police commissioner only because Mr. Mayor wants to keep his own political hide in one piece. And Gordon? If the monster with a rasping voice from your worst nightmare is your cup of coffee, I very much fear for your sanity. That is, if you still have any left.

You know how it is. You call some ordinary man the world's greatest detective, and next he starts believing he can actually read minds.

Worse, I almost blurted all that out, although we'd still be fine if I stopped at 'Hello, Lieutenant.' In some semblance of an effort to keep on my so-called clueless act, I'm not calling him Commissioner until he corrects me. And perhaps when he does, I will still continue to forget that occasionally.

Where were we in the real world? Oh, I was brave, or something? Let's see - there is this not too terrible line I managed to scramble up during my drive (oh, the part where I wasn't dodging between other cars and where I wasn't taking notes for my faithful butler, that is).

"Trying to catch the light?" I demand, pinning my hero with a suitably incredulous glare. He must be mad to equate any kind of bravery with a man who publicly admitted to wanting to abolish a speeding ticket. And a running a red light ticket, not that I'm supposed to know the proper name for it.

His thick mustache seems to quiver. Huh? I haven't one bit of alcohol in my system. I'm not sick, either. But that up and down, up and down motion on both ends of his mustache seems almost nauseatingly hypnotic, lulling me to a heavenly place where worries don't exist.

My mind's eyes snap open. Get a hold of yourself, Wayne. A place like that does not exist! If it feels real, somebody must have messed with your mind.

He swiped a finger back and forth over his mustache, effectively breaking my strange spell of getting drunk on it. But his being flustered only serves to make me inwardly cringe instead. This empty head act is doing too good a job of cementing my reputation. Not that I ever had an untarnished reputation to begin with, but willfully destroying it might be going a bit too far, don't you think?

Rachel would agree. Alfred would agree, but would say I have to endure anyway, like I have to endure other destructions my nocturnal career brings. (Although calling Batman a career is pushing it. Since Batman doesn't receive monetary compensations (legitimately, that is. A few unsavory citizens actually thought Batman could be bribed to ignore, or worse, to help them with their crimes. Yes, I know: how unbelievably, sickeningly naïve), it's more like a volunteer work. Then again, not quite that either. I can't think of any volunteer work that would put a private citizen at odds with the police. Then then again, according to them and pretty much most of Gotham general public, I'm a bubbleheaded billionaire, so what do I know?) It's a safe bet to say all my loved ones and then some would believe that making no effort to repair my reputation is better than tearing it down on purpose.

But this isn't about me. This is about my...our beloved city. We all do what we have to do to save her. I don't hold a grudge against Gordon for the stunt he pulled, scaring his friends and family half to death.

Alright, for a minute or two after his non-miraculous resurrection, I did have an uncharitable thought of sending him back to the land of the non-livings. But, at the same time, I have to admit that playing his card close to the chest (literally, I'm diverted enough to note), as our intrepid DA says, is effective. It's necessary to fool your friends before fooling your enemies or some such thing. Therefore, I've decided to be magnanimous and forgive him.

So, if I could be the adult in that situation, surely my hero could take my non-heroic facade. If I'm fated to stay an airhead in his eyes forever, so be it.

I wonder, however, whether that might be the reason I never approached him as Bruce Wayne. My facade can only endure so far.

As if he is afraid I wouldn't know what we are talking about, Gordon points at the vehicle in question. "You weren't protecting the van?"

Of course, I was. Why would I destroy my expensive car otherwise? Do I look like I have money to burn?

Oh, of course, I do. Time for another answer. Too bad I don't have a whole ride to think this time and now have to come up with something plausible on the spot.

I inwardly hiss. Stop trying to make me into a goddamn hero already, Gordon! With at least half of your force corrupted, we would be lucky if your almost outward praise didn't jeopardize anything.

Attempting to salvage the situation, I make my eyes wide like Barbie's, hopefully complete with a lack of intelligence to match. "Why? Who's in it?"

He doesn't respond. Not that I really expect him to. It seems like I either succeed in sinking myself in his eyes or succeed in making him realize that playing along with me for now is the best thing he could do. And I'm not sure which possibility is worse. If it's the latter, I hope he doesn't press me for answers. After all, he wouldn't be able to deny or confirm what I don't tell him. As I recall the rest of that conversation with Lucius, a smile threatens to break out, but I ruthlessly squash it.

But, either way, having manipulated him, I cannot meet my hero's eyes, so I turn my attention to the person who got us into this sticky situation. What grudge does he have against me, or more accurately, against my CEO, since my dear blackmailer never approached me with his dangerous epiphany? I don't have time to figure it out, and I'm not sure I want to try even if I have the time.

Mr. Reese's eyes widen. Now what kind of look did I give him? I wish it could be otherwise, but bubbleheaded playboys and intimidation don't mix well together. Or perhaps I haven't given him any because I don't feel any particular emotion toward him? He is a Gotham citizen, thus, I'm sworn to protect him, as I would have done for everyone in this beloved city. Batman cannot afford to have a favorite. Because if he ever does things for personal reasons, he would be no different from the other vigilantes who excuse their monstrous doings in the name of evil.

Alfred would slowly kill me in ten thousand different ways for twisting his words. But what he doesn't know can't hurt him, can it? Scratch that, Alfred knows everything. I swear, my dear exasperating butler has an unreal, supernatural ability to suss out whatever it is that you are fooling yourself into thinking that you can hide so well.

My blackmailer is being escorted off. To a safer place in no company of cops with families in hospitals, I presume. I don't have the time to get another Lamborghini (or if I had to, I could use the Tumbler, subtlety be damned, since it got us into this situation, but, unlike with my personal cars, my CEO would have my head if I crashed it indiscriminately. But hold it, I don't have a Tumbler - at least, not any I could immediately access, so back to the Lamb or nothing), and no one with any intelligence would have swallowed my inane excuse of "catching the light" the second time around.

If the last slightly shaky look he gave me is any indication, I probably succeed in silently begging Mr. Reese to hold off from exposing me on a live television until the Joker is safely locked up in his padded cell with no hope of escape. I'm not asking too much of them, am I?

For everyone's peace of mind, I'd better keep Mr. Reese in my employ. Easier to protect him if I can actually keep track of his whereabouts. And there is that saying about keeping your friends close and your enemies closer. Not that I think of him as an enemy, but he's still a wild card. And he's distressingly good at his work. It would be a shame to lose that talent. Besides, it would be a bother if I hired someone else and that person managed to duplicate what Mr. Reese did to land us in this hot water all over again.

And, if I dare materialize the garish purple elephant in the room, my blackmailer could simply provide me with a much better umbrella reason so no one else would ever be tempted to suspect that anything was not above board with R&D land in Wayne Enterprises.

But in the meantime, Mr. Reese is definitely not safe. Perhaps Gordon might have some idea about how to protect my blackmailer. Must remember to ask when I go give my statement regarding this accident.

I put a hand to the back of my neck. There is no injury there, but I am wound up so tightly I have to rub it. That may or may not account for my randomly going with the first thing that comes to mind.

"Don't you think I should go to the hospital?"

He doesn't roll his eyes in response, but my conscience hears it just the same. That's a bit too much, a bit too fake, even for a bubbleheaded playboy. But what's done is done. I could only offer an indifferent shrug. If it's damned if I do, damned if I don't, I might as well play my exaggerated role to the hilt.

"You don't watch a whole lot of news, do you, Mr. Wayne?"

No. I have my butler to do that for me. One of the many perks of being a rich, idle, spoiled prince. You don't ever do anything yourself.

Um... "not watching a whole lot of news" is also applicable to my not knowing about the occupant of the van. It's more effective here, however. Why I think that I don't even know. The news in question is intertwined, after all: you know about the Joker's threat, you know about the non-choice between the people in the hospital and Mr. Reese.

Thank you, Gordon, for not patronizing me. And I mean every word of that.

"It can get a little intense," I repay his kindness in an inane voice.

Poor Gordon. The look he shoots me seems to say, 'A little intense, huh? I don't want to know what you consider intense, Mr. Wayne.'

The emphasis on 'Mr. Wayne' sounds so high-pitched that I continue this imaginary one-sided conversation and tell him to call me Bruce. Then proceed to confess all my sins, where I failed the important people in my life, including Rachel and Harvey.

Naturally, this exercise in futility does not lighten my burden. Not one bit.

Shrugging, I struggle to keep the vacuous look on my face. How long can I keep doing this? I was tempted to add, 'what's happening at the hospital?' but that would be deliberately admitting that I'm more than the image I take pains to project. And we couldn't have that, could we? Being careless with my own life is one thing, being careless with the lives of others is not the line I am willing to cross. There are far too many people (read: more than one person) in the know as it is.

Not that I don't trust Gordon; in fact, that is probably the farthest thing from the truth. But giving him the burden he never asks for? Not too sporting, my butler would say.

Or would he? Alfred probably would wash his hands of me long before I was even tempted to confess on my own. Seriously, doing that is just asking for trouble I don't want to deal with. I mean, the Joker already managed to track down my loved ones fine without my giving in to his demands (that he changed anyway, that psychotic unpredictable clown). (And if you're gonna tell me that his change of heart means the Joker already knows who I am, he would not be able to resist coming to me and striking where I'm most vulnerable.) Serving up my identity on a platter, like I was going to do at the press conference, would help no one but my conscience. Perhaps not even that.

But, in any case, I might as well not bother with any kind of cover-up. Gordon no longer pays any attention to me. Story of my life: I am always left behind by the people I love.

I mentally kick myself. Enough of the pity party my dead loved ones wouldn't want me to hold. I have to focus on the living. Leave the brooding for when this city is no longer puppeteered by a white-faced clown.

At that moment, the ground shakes from the strength of a blast. So the Joker's fulfilled his twisted promise. I have to trust that the police managed to get everyone out of the hospital.

And I wish I could remain that naïve. To completely evacuate a building of that size in under an hour is an impossibility.

For what seems like forever, but probably only a minute or two in reality, a numbness spreads over my body. It is unreal. The Joker said that he would blow up a hospital, but until that moment, I don't think I have truly believed him.

Almost instinctively, my hands tense up. While it is nowhere near Batman level (that persona requires a costume to summon it up), my body language is far from fitting the bubblehead persona. Before you all scold me for not trying to hide my secret, I no longer care if Gordon notices that I'm not entirely without proper sensibility. Or perhaps, in my selfishness, I want him to notice. I'm too weak to keep up a facade.

My eyes take in all. Even when they want to close, I force them open.

I am sorry. Forgive me. I dare ask for absolution, knowing I would never get it, my voice can no longer reach the casualties I blithely sacrificed. In all my childish desire to meet with my hero, I've neglected to hurry to the hospital.

What could you have done, even if you had reached the hospital in time? You are only one person, and not a superhuman. No one could ask you to do the impossible.

I already know that. The fact that I am here instead of there is proof enough that I've already unconsciously decided that I could do no good at the hospital (the one perk of being a high society is you don't ever go anywhere and hope to blend into the crowd) but might be able to save one life here. Not to mention it's entirely possible that the Joker might target some other hospital besides Gotham General. I couldn't afford to guess wrong and become useful nowhere.

But that is all beside the point. I didn't even try. In the most horrible way possible, I have failed them, all the good people who had their faith in the Batman.

But perhaps people can still have their faith in the police. Even with half of the force not to be trusted, the officers all seem to set aside their personal agendas for a moment and work together to pull through the current crisis. It says a lot about Gordon's leadership ability.

Amidst his many responsibilities, Gordon proved me wrong and found the time to return to my side. He looks at me with kind eyes, the same eyes that reassured me that the world was far from ending in that dark night many years ago.

What am I to do? My indifference, my shield, crumbles. I am tired, woozy, drained.

If my hero sees my weakening, he makes no outward indication. Reaching out, he gives my stiff shoulder a gentle squeeze.

Go home. You have done all you can. We will take care of the rest.

Oh, he didn't actually say that out loud, but that's what I hear just the same. And I don't take it amiss. A civilian has no place among the police convoy, especially since they are busy trying to save the city.

But is that true? Have I done all I can here? Is it enough? Can the police be trusted to do their job properly?

As if he sensed my inner struggles (and he probably could, with me broadcasting them), Gordon squeezes my shoulder again. I would love to say that my world is put to right by his kind gesture, but the world (alright, the Joker, whom I have, in my misguided superiority, severely underestimated) is not that simple. Still, I very much appreciate the comfort as a little bit of tension lifts from my shoulder.

Gordon turns his attention toward the poor defeated Bat destroyed in the line of duty. And I mentally blink, my confusion genuine. The unsalvageable Lamborghini Murcielago is still here, its very presence seems to mock me for failing it also.

"I'll need you to sign some paperwork. Stop by the station when you're free."

Oh, I see. While I've been unproductively ruminating, Gordon is already taking steps to dispose of what is left of my car.

So I put on my best reassuring 'everything is okay' face and say brightly, "Sure thing, Lieutenant."

He looks as if he wants to say something, but then just shakes his head. "On another thought, perhaps I could bring those papers to you." His raised eyebrow seems a challenge, as if to say 'can you take five minutes out of your busy partying schedule to meet me?'

Are we back at this facading again? Where have all the sympathies gone? Was I reading too much into his earlier gestures?

There is a time when one has to take things on faith. Perhaps my hope for salvation is not entirely lost if I can still blindly trust someone. But, to be fair, it isn't difficult to trust my hero - Gordon is and will always be the one person incapable of being poisoned with darkness.

So I smile my million dollar smile, but with enough seriousness to show that I am sincere and not whatever fake thing the commissioner believes me to be.

"No, it's fine. I can go down to the station whenever you wish."

He sighs. "The station isn't in the best shape at the moment."

It is an explanation. The truth, tinged with regret, but the airheaded playboy wouldn't...couldn't understand that. He would think Gordon was indulging in a reverse snobbery, that the station is too good for the likes of Bruce Wayne.

And perhaps Gordon has the right idea in keeping me from the station. The airhead would whine and whine and whine. All the dust. All the papers. All the chaos.

If it is more convenient for Gordon to bring those papers to me, let him. Whatever our relationship may be (and trust me when I say I'm not sure what that is), I have no wish to add to my hero's burden. He is the light of Gotham that I could never be.

So, instead of prolonging this awkward encounter (when it's clear the last thing my hero wants to do is to babysit a phony playboy) with flippant remarks I don't feel like making, I only bow. "As you wish, Lieutenant. I'll be happy to comply with any arrangement you make."

He looks at my face, stripped free of facade, for a long time, but in reality, it must have lasted only a few seconds. Whatever he found there must have satisfied him, for he nods. "I'll contact you." He gives me a light clap on the arm, then goes off to be a hero and save our city.

At the last moment, he stops. "Oh, Mr. Wayne?" he says over his shoulder.

"Yes?"

"I'm not giving you a ticket this time, but, in the future, leave running the red light to the professionals, will you?"

Even though his face is stern, I could hear a smile in his voice. The professionals, huh? Public servants, criminal masterminds, or something else?

I almost snort. It's Jim Gordon, of course, it's "something else". That should worry me, but somehow, with the head of Gotham's finest reassuring me on matters I'm sure he doesn't have a full picture of (and it's my fault for not explaining, I know), I feel like I'm not alone, not at this moment. My smile is completely genuine this time.

In lieu of an answer, I give him a little salute and turn to leave. Not before I catch a not entirely pleased expression on my hero's face, however. But I continue walking and pretend to not feel his gaze burning amiss on my back.

But why? Did I underdo the salute? Too flippant? I thought he doesn't mind that. He might want to roll his eyes, but he hasn't yelled nor expressed a real annoyance at my so-called playboy-ish behaviors the entire time I've been in his company, so I'm left with a blank I'm not sure I want to try to fill in.

One thing at a time. The fiendish clown is still at large, busily whipping the townspeople into a chaotic frenzy. But Gotham's finest is working hard to change that, to give faith back to this city. I'll have to lend them a hand, doing whatever it takes (one of which, I'm sure, involves making my CEO mad at me) to bring the Joker to justice.

For a city in the clutches of a psychotic clown, the streets are curiously peaceful. Perhaps people think it's safer to stay at home and give the Joker no ammunition to use. Sure, they are most likely just looking out for themselves, but as long as they don't care to eat one another yet, the weight lifts a little from my heart.

The light is still out there, waiting for me at the end of the tunnel. Right, Rachel? Dawn may be years away, but I'll just have to forge ahead and reach for that light.

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 **A/N:** Thank you for reading my story. Hope you enjoyed it.

 **Next Chapter:** Gordon's version of the same event.


	2. Dawn

**Disclaimer:** I don't own any recognizable characters or settings nor do I intend to make any money off them.

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 **Catching the Light**

 **Chapter 2: Dawn**

* * *

 _Well, maybe Batman can save you._

That is a sentiment unworthy of a police commissioner. Since when do I palm my responsibility off on a vigilante? Especially one who never takes orders from anyone.

It's the stress of the situation. Still, that doesn't excuse my unprofessional behavior toward a civilian I'm supposed to be protecting. I can't ever take back that flippant remark.

The kicker is, as self-absorbed as he is, I don't think Coleman Reese ever noticed my remark, let alone having any chance of remembering it. The Batman would never hear about it, either. Yet, here I am, fretting over something almost no one would ever blame me for.

My phone beeps. Oh, geez. I might have been dismissive earlier, but now I can really use the Batman. Or, at least, a miracle.

As if things are not dicey enough, some fool chooses that moment to let a speeding truck ram into his vehicle.

That must be the fastest I have my prayer answered, ever.

Of course, I don't need help subduing the young officer intending on killing Coleman Reese. But it's reassuring just the same that I'm not completely on my own.

It had better be the Batman in that other vehicle. No one else would know how to survive that kind of impact. Or at least, I pray that other private citizens have more sense than to play fast and loose with their only lives.

Getting out of the van, I'm greeted with the remains of a wrecked sports car shrouding in smoke. I almost falter. Surely, the Bat has too much sense to deliberately crash an expensive car just to meet me.

On the other hand, Lamborghini _Murcielago_? Seriously? Is this person daft or something?

How can I be so sure, you ask? Well, who in his right mind would buy a vehicle named after a bat, even though the word's in Spanish, if he didn't wish to claim some relationship, whether positive or negative, with our resident Bat? As a police detective, believing in coincidence could prove far too costly.

Speaking of costly things, I wince at the all too possible state of the Lamborghini's driver. Unless the person is invulnerable, that has to hurt. Badly.

Peering closer, I could make out a vague form of a man sitting next to the car, as if he doesn't have a care in the world. I feel unreasonable heat flooding my body when it's clear that he isn't stretched down the length of the street, unmoving. That civilian has no business putting himself in harm's way, damn it!

My righteous lecture dies on my lips, however, when I see who the driver of that formerly exotic car is.

"That's Mr. Wayne, isn't it?"

You heard that right. Bruce Wayne, the Prince of Gotham himself. And that's just great. Now on top of everything I get to deal with the clueless idiotic playboy. There is a reason I avoid his usual haunts and now he's handed himself to me on a silver platter for reckless driving.

He seems slightly groggy, but not drunk, and does not even try to pretend to look drunk. And has the gall to act like he can get away with not maintaining that facade.

"That was a very brave thing you did," I continue, hoping my unreasonable annoyance doesn't show. And it is unreasonable. He has possibly saved Coleman Reese's life and here I am, petty enough to quibble over how he conducts himself. Geez, his shirt and suit aren't even mussed! They are so pristine, as though he'd been doing something unexciting like attending a board meeting and had not just crawled out of a totally wrecked car.

Bruce Wayne's face takes on a perplexed look. "Trying to catch the light?" he asks in a voice filled with exaggerated disbelief.

I resist the urge to roll my eyes. The way his car was mangled, there was almost no way it was not deliberately put that way. And I will sooner believe in some winged mammal saving our world over his inability to control his car.

The contrary playboy, however, promptly makes my confidence in his control a lie. His green eyes appear glazed over. I lean closer. Was I wrong earlier?

I mentally let out a breath. No, I wasn't. His breath doesn't smell like someone who's been drinking.

But something's...divorcing him from reality, for lack of a better way to put it. I could almost imagine his floating along on the cloud and not returning to the ground.

Rubbing my mustache, I mentally shake my head. I've never claimed to be any kind of psychiatrist and it's better for all of us if I leave psycho imagery to qualified professionals. For all I know, he was only daydreaming. Although why would he do so in the middle of an intersection, with a mangled car on one side and a police van on another? Speaking of which...

"You weren't protecting the van?" I ask, gesturing at it. Why I bother pressing the issue, I don't even know. If he intends to go on the way he has, he isn't going to admit to doing anything to help.

The coldness radiating from his eyes should have chilled me. What have I done to offend him so? It almost seems like he resents any suggestion of him being anything approaching a hero.

Oh, that coldness is almost undetectable. To be honest, I suspect that it would go right over many people's heads, but when one has to read body language, particularly of criminals, for a living, one tends to notice things. Although, not being a criminal, Mr. Wayne isn't very inclined to oblige me with how he truly feels.

As if he thought better of it, he abandons the coldness. It wasn't working on me, either way, so that's a wise decision on his part.

"Why? Who's in it?" Without waiting for my answer, he turns his head toward the van to satisfy his own curiosity.

I suppress my laughter with difficulty. You really don't do anything halfway, do you, Mr. Wayne? That wide-eyed innocent act could have won some award. If it wouldn't make me look unprofessional, I would have snapped a picture. Or better, a video. Blackmail material isn't always easy to come by.

Then again, considering the whole mess with the whiny blackmailer, who isn't completely out of the woods yet, I'm not sure I want to dabble my hand in that dark art. My work pays well enough, thank you, and the pay gets increased with all the dangers I'm facing.

Speaking of Coleman Reese, Mr. Wayne gives him an almost imperceptible nod but otherwise displays no discernable emotion. No intimidation. No regret. No anger. No surprise. Whatever his facial expression is, it is nothing I could interpret. And, as I might have implied earlier, I pride myself on my ability to read people, a necessary skill for a police officer in the town where lies are worshiped and the truth get bent out of shape.

On the other hand, Mr. Reese's expression isn't a mystery (ironic, considering his name). His eyes go wide. A panic almost greater than the one he's been exhibiting seems to seize him. I have no sympathy. Should have thought of your own limits before trying to reveal the Batman's identity and incite the Joker into getting you killed.

And here is the million dollar question. While he was on that ill-fated GCN program, did Reese actually know who the Batman was? Or did he let his greed blind him? Let an easy path to fame go to his head?

Perhaps it's all three. Reese is subdued now, his face filled with resignation. I still do not care one bit what mindfuckery he's gone through, but he'd better stay low key and give us no more trouble. Those cops that lead him away don't seem to have families in Gotham General, so perhaps we might be able to weather this crisis relatively unscathed. Speaking of which, I'll have to remember to ask Batman how he could find out so quickly which cops are likely to attack Reese.

I shake my head. He's the goddamn Batman, Gordon. You think he would share his trade secrets with you?

Forget trade secrets. Batman shares nothing. He might condescend to meet you, make you his partner by telling you 'we are two', and lend you that cool tank which is already destroyed but you still ache to possess, but it would be a mistake to think you could order him to do anything he doesn't want to. Take when we were interrogating the Joker, for example.

So why do I keep ordering Batman around, you ask? Just because he won't follow orders doesn't mean I could let him get away with believing that no one would ever try to keep his activities in check. He's still a vigilante, a fact that no one, neither friends nor foes, will let me forget. Still, I have my line drawn. As long as I am in charge, the Batman will not be arrested.

And that brings me to when I had to hide out of sight before resurrecting. Among my many regrets is I didn't have a chance to try to convince the Batman the folly of his action in forcing Harvey Dent to call the 'Batman Identity Revealed' press conference. It doesn't help that I'm sure that every one of his friends told Batman to not give in to the Joker's demand. Among those, Dent was probably the loudest one of them all.

"...you think I should go to the hospital?" Mr. Wayne breaks into my thoughts, returning me back to the problem at hand. I feel the beginning of a headache. It is a bent world we live in if dealing with a man dressed as a bat is less complicated than dealing with a...spoiled brat.

What I think, my dear Mr. Wayne, is you should go home. Gotham General is the last place you want to be in. If you are injured in the crash, I'm sure you have your own family doctor.

Nice and condescendingly to the point. Even the not-so-bright playboy could not fail to grasp my meaning.

"You don't watch a whole lot of news, do you, Mr. Wayne?"

A glimmer of respect shown in his green eyes, but, just like the coldness earlier, it is quickly gone. You'd have missed it if you haven't been staring at his face like I have.

It's fortunate that I've scrapped those lines completely, isn't it? Even though this billionaire playboy likes to play the fool, he apparently doesn't really want to be treated as one. I still haven't worked out whether it's only me, or whether there is also someone else whose good opinion he craves.

Well, if he asked me how to earn my good opinion, I would tell him to either drop the facade or play it better so it doesn't seem so fake. There, all my frustration with this exchange is out in the open. I'm not the average crowd he hangs out with, so he had better stop insulting my intelligence already if he wanted my respect.

"It can get a little intense," he confides in all seriousness. Or it'd have been serious if I didn't detect a veneer of careless flippancy in his answer.

This is just too much. I could only stare at him, honestly not knowing what to say at this point. The vacant look, as if nothing lives beyond that facade, is back, strong as ever. I get the sudden urge to bundle him up and deposit him back at his penthouse, away from all these cruel realities.

Seriously. It is dangerous...very dangerous, this game he plays. I don't pretend to understand his motivations, his reasons, but if I could see his pretense for what it is, someone else also could. For all we like to pretend otherwise, this city isn't full of idiots.

But, to be fair, he didn't disappoint. Did I really expect something tame like a 'no, I don't watch the news because I'm too lazy to bother'?

As I try to reconcile the many sides of Bruce Wayne, I feel the wave of an explosion from the southeast direction. So it's really Gotham General. The Joker might be an agent of chaos, but he's doing us a favor by choosing to be predictable this once.

My radio squawks, so I very reluctantly take my eyes off the elusive billionaire. Elusive, because those tabloids and newspapers and the GCN programs never make any pretense of reporting on the real Bruce Wayne.

And who is that elusive creature? Perhaps, it is the man who has no hesitation of wrecking his exotic sports car and would not bat an eye at the real possibility of having to replace it. Who selflessly did so for someone not really worthy of saving, at a great risk to himself, and then brazenly denied his heroic rescue.

I almost chuckle. Apparently, this Bruce Wayne is a lot less glamorous than the tabloids make him out to be. No wonder no one wants to dig for the truth - it isn't exciting, it isn't scandalous, it doesn't sell papers.

Sorry, Mr. Wayne. You protecting the van would become a three-day wonder, but during that time, the fickle public wouldn't know what to make of you. Whereas you trying to catch the light would probably make you a three-day wonder, too, but, at least, they would be looking out for your wilder escapades.

This will not go on the news if I have anything to say about it. All I'm willing to release is a driver losing control of an unidentified car.

At least suppressing unnecessary news is in my control somewhat. Stopping your dangerous game, however, is not. I could try locking you up, but I'm sure you'll be out in less than a day, with all your money and lawyers at your beck and call. Besides, whether you really are an airhead or only pretend to be one, I'm not looking forward to making an enemy of you.

Come to think of it, we are fortunate no one is reporting on the real Bruce Wayne. Because I get the feeling that whoever that is, he's going to make so much wave that the Joker would become last century's news. Considering the atrocities the clown has already committed (and will commit if we cannot stop him), the possibility of him being completely dismissed from people's collective consciousness is too scary to contemplate.

I pinch the bridge of my nose. All this is really giving me a headache. So I throw myself into my job, snapping out orders right and left into my radio. And on top of everything else, I learn that Harvey Dent chooses this moment to be difficult and disappear from the hospital. We didn't part on the best of terms, to put it mildly, but I really couldn't care less. All I could think of is if anyone will have any luck in locating him, it's probably the Batman.

But the Joker appears to be a bigger priority for the Bat. As I said earlier, psycho imagery isn't for me, but I find their twisted relationship, their opposite personalities, disturbingly fascinating. For the most part, the Bat doesn't react to taunts, but I had a small moment of fear when the mad clown almost succeeded in provoking him. Hell, I wanted to take the clown's throat in between my hands myself so I sympathized, but I admit to holding the Bat to higher standards than most other human beings. If someone as good as he is can lose control, what hope can we mere mortals have?

Speaking of mortals, I'm already late in going to Gotham General, but I can't leave Mr. Wayne here alone. Especially not in his current state. He sits so still, unmoving, having no reaction to the blast, as if he hadn't heard it.

His stillness reminds me of that night long ago. The little boy was stunned, as if he couldn't believe his tragedy was real, that his parents were killed in front of him.

My comforting him was inadequate. Saying 'it's okay' repeatedly did not take the pain away. It probably never could. But I had to do it for him because everyone else in the station didn't. True, the police were busy doing their job in resolving the case, but hell, a little boy had just lost his parents, bringing in their murderer wouldn't change the fact that the boy would still go home alone, forever without his parents.

I do not ever want to see that lost and heart-breaking look again on any child's face. And now I discover I do not want to see the same look even on an adult's face. But perhaps it might just be because I keep seeing Mr. Wayne as that lost little boy.

My radio squawks again. The hospital has misplaced one bus full of patients. I really have to go. If Bruce Wayne will not move on his own, I'll have to make him.

As I contemplate on a possible way to move him, Mr. Wayne solves my unvoiced problem and starts to rise. Carefully, while holding on the wrecked car for balance. Turning away from me, his gaze is fixed in the direction of Gotham General. It is not the Batman (who would eat most people's pretenses at intimidation for breakfast), but his almost total absorption is uncharacteristic of the carefree playboy.

If I thought his eyes were cold before, they are arctic now. How could a flesh and blood man feel like he is carved out of a block of ice? What kind of abnormally rigid control does he exert over himself?

Putting a hand on his shoulder, I hope for a glimpse of the happy, warm-hearted little boy who must have existed before the night I first met him. That boy is probably still in there somewhere, frozen deep down inside this maddeningly complex man.

But I voice none of my wonderings. If Bruce Wayne wanted to confide in me, he would. Besides, I prefer not to seek out answers. If I don't know whatever it is he is so intent on hiding, I don't have to feel responsible for his welfare.

Instead, I gesture at his wrecked car.

"I'll need you to sign some paperwork. Stop by the station when you're free."

"Sure thing, Lieutenant," he says with a light, easy charm. As if the dark shadow I saw, the coldness I felt, never existed.

It's a measure of relief I feel that I don't even think to correct him on my rank. As my moving up in rank isn't yet in the news, most people would probably think Garcia promoted me after we got the Joker situation resolved - for the second time. And we will get that mad clown.

As I cannot pretend to die for the second time, whoever is guarding my family has to be trustworthy. My wife and children have suffered enough on my behalf. If something were to happen to them...

This will not do. Focus. Deep breath. They are safe at home, and will continue to be.

The same thing cannot be said of the state of MCU.

Mr. Wayne cannot go to the station. With parts blown off and debris flying everywhere, the station is no place for a civilian who is not a suspect.

"On another thought, I could bring those papers to you," I offer, raising my brow. Well, whenever you can fit me in between your social butterfly calendar.

I immediately regret such an unworthy thought. In an ironic twist, I wish Bruce Wayne is really the airhead he appears, for he wouldn't be able to discern that I've just made him sound like an airhead.

But my wish is futile. It's brief, but I catch a flash of pain, as if I've betrayed him. And I have. But as his reaction is not in words, I cannot apologize in words, either.

"No, it's fine. I can go down to the station whenever you wish."

His smile is more honest than what I'm accustomed to seeing from him. Okay, as we've never really met in person before today for who knows how long, my only exposure to his fake smile was from the magazines or in the news, so getting a smile now that might be real isn't much of a stretch.

"The station isn't in the best shape at the moment," I admit, blowing out a breath. My only hope is he doesn't take my admission as some kind of an excuse. Some kind of backpedaling for non-verbally insulting him earlier.

For whatever reason, Mr. Wayne appears to take my statement at its face value and promises to happily comply with "any arrangement" I might have made. I stare at him, aware that I'm rude in doing so but can't help myself. Who is this man who lives up to none of his so-called careless reputation?

Don't get me wrong. I have zero interest in completely or even partially figuring him out. Whatever Mr. Wayne chooses to do, as long as it doesn't harm other honest people, I'm content to leave him be.

And the same right to privacy also goes for every other honest citizen. It'd probably spook at least a few people if they knew that I already learned way too much from that press conference. If I had a memory eraser, I would use it.

But I don't, so I'll have to deal with my unwanted knowledge the old-fashioned way: burying it deep in my mind. Curiosity kills the cat, and I still plan to be around for a while longer, thank you very much.

Bruce Wayne's face, while not exactly free of his guard (I don't think he knows how to be completely open, not even to his closest confidants), is largely devoid of pretense. Again, I get an impression that he wants to please me, or at least, to gain my approval.

So I give him a nod. "I'll contact you," I say, clapping his arm. As I'm about to walk away, a thought occurs to me.

"Oh, Mr. Wayne?"

His expression is unreadable. "Yes?"

I swing toward him completely. How someone could imbue total blankness in that one word is beyond me, but Bruce Wayne somehow managed it. I shake my head, not knowing why I even wonder. After all, this is someone who has done the impossible: returning from the dead.

"I'm not giving you a ticket this time, but, in the future, leave running the red light to the professionals, will you?"

Although I keep my expression serious, I make no effort to hide the light note in my voice. And I know that using the word 'professionals' is a waste of time, but I have to keep up an appearance, however flimsy. If he chose to show me he saw through it, that's fine. In fact, that's what I want. If he could remain outwardly indifferent in the face of such blatant provocation, I have a far bigger problem than the Joker tearing our town apart through mass panic.

Warmth floods through my body when a smile appears, reaching all the way to his seemingly tired eyes (must be the late night at the office). My satisfaction dims a little when he doesn't answer in words but only tosses me a careless salute worthy of a spoiled playboy.

Staring at his back as he saunters away, I couldn't help my frown - my only hope is he doesn't notice that he got the last word in, after all.

Message received. I'm not to interfere with his lifestyle choices or to give an appearance of wanting to.

But I'm probably reading too much into a simple gesture. Perhaps he just wanted to leave with no fuss, and I'm the one who kept him past the time. If he's half as tired as his eyes indicate, he should really go home.

Try to relax more, Mr. Wayne, and drop your social mask when it isn't necessary to keep it up. After your good deed, you've definitely earned some rest.

And I mean that. While I go about my work, shouting all that is proper about saving Harvey Dent, I wish Gotham could take care of herself for once. There must still be some good people, some beacon of light in this city so bent I wouldn't know who to rat to.

Some other good people besides _him_ , that is. We are all too happy to let Batman clean up our streets. Gotham still has a long way to go, but surely we can stop burdening our Dark Knight beyond his very real human ability to do the impossible.

* * *

 **A/N:** It's probably obvious that I adore the scene I based my story on. ;) I don't have any problem with the way the movie presents that scene, but I suppose I just want more than one minute of my two favorite people together.

At any rate, thank you for giving my humble story a chance, and I hope you enjoyed the time spent reading it.


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